The living room smelled like expensive whiskey, cigars, and leather.

The fire crackled in the stone hearth, throwing warm light across the men lounging in deep brown armchairs. The drinks had been refilled. The laughter was lower now, slower, threaded with something darker. Ariana stood at the threshold, fingers digging into the fabric of her dress.

Richard was the only one standing.

He leaned against the edge of the mantel, his tie loosened, his shirt sleeves rolled up. He looked entirely ...